Letting Go
by InterdimensionalHitchhiker84
Summary: It's been two months since the fall, and Sherlock contacts John to help him with a case. When his friend's response results in his being shot, how will Sherlock cope? Canon through season 2, but not for season 3.


_Author's Note: The first little part is a few lines from a song in the musical, Holy Musical B man, which can be found on , and it is what inspired the story. I would love to hear what you all have to say! This is my first Sherlock fanfic and I'd like to improve it in any way I can, so constructive criticism is appreciated. _

_Disclaimer: I do not, nor will I ever, own Sherlock, the BBC, Great Britain, or basically anything you recognize. _

_Enjoy!_

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><p>CHAPTER 1<p>

_One shot! Two shots in the night and they're gone! And he's all left alone. He's just one boy, two dead at his feet and their blood stains the street! And there's nothing—no, there's nothing he can do! Except, be the baddest man that there's ever been. He's gonna' carry the weight. He's gonna' get revenge!_

-Holy Musical B man! By Team Starkid

One tear left a trail as it slid down his face. As it splashed to the ground, he reacted violently, quickly pulling his knees up to his chest and rocking back and forth on the steps. He sniffed and then shut his eyes tightly, silently willing the scene before him to go away—to be just a dream, a nightmare. He buried his face in his knees and started to sob. The man hadn't cried in years, but as hard as he tried, he couldn't stop himself from gasping for air, the tears making breathing difficult as he felt a lump form in his throat. _'Stop it!'_ he screamed at himself mentally. _'STOP IT!'_ His body didn't listen however, and he continued to rock back and forth, his great sobs racking his body. The sounds of sirens got closer, but he couldn't hear them. _'Why?!'_ his thoughts cried out. _'Why couldn't I just leave it alone!? Why did I have to put them in danger?'_

A black SUV pulled up before the police cars, and a man with a dark suit and black umbrella stepped out of the car and walked toward the scene. His eyes widened as he took in the information of what had obviously happened. "John," he muttered as he squatted down to check for a pulse. The man lying on the pavement didn't stir, but the one with the umbrella jumped up suddenly. "Sherlock!" he yelled. "What are you doing!?" The man on the stairs looked up slowly, his whole face damp now. "We have to stop the blood flow!" The man on the stairs looked shocked, but stood up suddenly, almost as if stung.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Now!" the man with the umbrella yelled, now pressing down on the wound, blood covering his hands.

The man named Sherlock was over in a flash. He'd taken off his jacket and was pressing it down onto the dying man's stomach now, muttering, "John, I thought… I'm so sorry. You were… John, don't die. Please John. Don't." A crew of paramedics rushed over and picked up John, placing him on a gurney and raising him into the ambulance. Sherlock tried to follow, but the paramedics stopped him. They told him something, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention. The ambulance zoomed off, leaving another small group of people to zip the woman into a body bag. Soon she was gone as well and police surrounded the man called Sherlock as well as the one with the umbrella.

"What happened?" asked a police inspector with silver hair.

"Damn it Lestrade!" yelled Sherlock. "He was shot—they were shot! Isn't it obvious?" Lestrade tried to put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but it was shrugged away and he didn't make another attempt.

"Sherlock," said the man with the umbrella.

"Go away, Mycroft!" yelled Sherlock. "Lestrade, take me to the hospital." The silver-haired police inspector signaled to someone, who then opened a door for Sherlock. He got into the police car without another word and as it drove away, he closed his eyes again, bringing his hands up to the sides of his head. "Think!" he suddenly yelled out. The policeman driving jumped, but didn't say anything.

The car slowed, and wordlessly, Sherlock got out of the police car and ran up the steps to the hospital doors. He spoke to the girl at the desk, who didn't know anything, and sat huffily on a chair in the waiting room. About twenty minutes later, the man with the umbrella arrived again. After speaking (much more civilly than Sherlock) to the girl at the desk, he walked over into the waiting room. "Sherlock," he said.

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft Holmes raised an eyebrow, but did not continue, and instead sat across from Sherlock in a rather uncomfortable chair and crossed his legs, pressing his hands together under his chin. After a rather prolonged silence, Mycroft spoke again. "How is it that you didn't realize Dr. Watson might have survived the shot?"

"I don't know," replied Sherlock angrily. "He should have died. Blood loss alone would have…" he trailed off.

"What about Mrs. Hudson?"

"Dead almost instantly," he answered.

"Dare I ask what you'd gotten yourselves into that had people shooting at you?" Mycroft asked.

"They weren't shooting at me. They were shooting at John and Mrs. Hudson. I didn't see who it was. They got away."

Mycroft seemed to accept that answer, at least for the moment, and stood up to walk back towards the desk. He carried on a short conversation with the person who had replaced the girl at the desk before taking out his mobile. He made at least two calls before returning to where Sherlock was sitting. "He's still in surgery."

Sherlock just grunted.

"You'll be allowed to see him as soon as he's out." Sherlock's eyes were closed, and it was clear that he wasn't paying much attention to the man with the umbrella. "Sherlock." Sherlock looked up and glared at Mycroft.

"What is it, brother?"

"It doesn't look good. He may not pull through." Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes again. "Don't do anything stupid, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored him and Mycroft turned on his heel and walked away.

It was several hours later when Sherlock heard a gentle cough next to him and he opened his eyes. The nurse looked rather nervous. "Um… Mr. Holmes, I was told to tell you, umm" she faltered under Sherlock's intense and piercing stare. "Dr. Watson is out of surgery sir, but umm, he's well..."

"Spit it out."

"Beg your pardon sir. It's just that, well, Dr. Watson is in a coma. His chances of coming out of it aren't good."

Sherlock swore under his breath. _'Would this have happened if I hadn't assumed he was gone? Could I have saved him?' _Sherlock pushed these thoughts aside. "Can I see him?" The nurse nodded and Sherlock followed her down the corridors. When they entered the room, Sherlock bit his lip. John was tied up to quite a few machines, with numerous tubes and wires. A monitor showed that his heartbeat was slow and weak. He pulled a chair over to the bedside and sat in it, reaching for John's hand. The nurse left discretely. "I'm sorry John," he said softly. He bowed his head. "I am sorry." A single tear made its track along his face once more and Sherlock swallowed hard.

There was a two week period, the doctors said. If John Watson didn't wake up in that time, then there was very little chance that he was ever going to. Sherlock spent those two weeks sitting or lying on his couch, with nicotine patches on one arm, and with cocaine pumped into the other one, trying not to think, but failing miserably. He couldn't understand, though. He had no idea what had prompted the shooting in the first place. Well, that wasn't true. He had an idea, but although it was one hell of a coincidence, it was foolish to speculate without data. And data was just what Sherlock Holmes didn't have. He'd jumped. The plan went well. He'd waited a full two months before returning to Baker Street. Why, _why_, would they still be interested in going after John and Mrs. Hudson? Even if they had that kind of work ethic, to the rest of the world, he was still dead. No one had known until that night. No one but Molly and Mycroft and some of the homeless network anyways. What sort of hired assassins would find and shoot down their targets years after? Even if they found out that the conditions hadn't actually been met. And how had they found that out anyways? And they hadn't gone after Lestrade, so it probably wasn't them anyways. Maybe. Probably not.

Sherlock groaned as he rolled over and shoved his face deep into the throw pillow that John had insisted on having in the flat. He hadn't woken up yet. He probably wouldn't ever wake up. Would Mr. and Mrs. Watson pull the plug? He wasn't entirely dead. Besides, they were church-going people. They probably believed in the sacredness of life, or something like that. He heard footfalls on the stairs and the door to the flat push open. "Brother dear," said Mycroft irritatingly, "It's time to get up. You really shouldn't be using those drugs. You know how Dr. Watson hates it." Sherlock shot bolt upright and stared, wide-eyed, at his brother.

"Has he woken up?" _'No, of course not—don't be ridiculous, he thought to himself.'_

"No." Mycroft pursed his lips. "Sherlock, I hate to do this-you know how it upsets Mummy to know these things—but if you don't get yourself cleaned up, I will have to tell our parents what a state you've gotten yourself into." He tapped his umbrella against the floor. "I have a case for you. It's a matter of grave importance. You start tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock."

"Boring," said the younger Holmes.

Mycroft tilted his head to the side. "I'm afraid you have no choice. I've given you several cases and you've rejected them all. Even the one about the intriguing tiger—"

"I don't care!" shouted Sherlock. "They were all boring!" Throwing himself back down onto the sofa, Sherlock pulled the pillow out from under him and threw it at his brother, missing and knocking over a vase.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Nine o'clock tomorrow, Little Brother." He turned on his heel and walked out, closing the door firmly behind him.

It was then that Sherlock realized what he had to do. He had to let John go.

It was 6:30 am the next morning; Sherlock had pulled himself together. He'd slept for several hours, showered, shaved, dressed, and even eaten. He had a killer headache, but most of the drugs' effects had worn off. He sunk slowly into his chair, staring thoughtfully at John's while he sipped his tea. _'It will have to go,'_ he thought. _'It's only a distraction.'_ He closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind for a moment. When unwanted thoughts found their way past his mental barriers, he said out loud, cross with himself, "John is not coming back."

Sherlock drained the rest of the liquid from his mug and rose. He set the cup down hard on the kitchen counter and snatched his scarf and coat from their hooks by the door. He tightened the scarf around his throat, swung the long, dark coat around his shoulders, and slipped out of the flat, creeping down the stairs without a word or sound to alert Mrs. Hudson. He pulled his phone from his pocket as he eased the door shut behind him and stepped out onto the street. He scrolled through his text history once more.

Meet me at 221B Baker St. –SH

_Sherlock!? What? No. Sorry, but I can't meet you. You're dead. –JW_

Yes, very observant John. Come now, please. –SH

_I—if this is a trick Sherlock, I'll—OK, fine. 15 min. –JW_

He looked at it sadly. That conversation had led John to his near death. He deleted the message and hailed a taxi, sliding the phone back into his pocket. It was amazing how there always seemed to be one around. He got in and told the driver to go to the hospital. He sat in silence during the drive there, brooding over things, trying to decide how much of John he should delete. He wasn't relevant anymore and he really shouldn't be holding on to any unnecessary clutter. The car stopped and Sherlock handed the cabbie several bills before stepping out and walking to the large glass doors. He stepped inside and went to John's ward, navigating the corridors by memory. He glanced at his phone before entering the room. 7:24.

Sherlock pushed open the door and walked in, moving gracefully over to John's bedside. "I'm sorry John," he said softly, running his fingers through the older man's hair. He grasped the man's hand and sat in the chair next to the bed. "I wish I didn't have to do this."

Slowly, Sherlock walked through the halls of his mind palace, making his way to John's room. He repressed several sobs as he started going through everything he knew about John—deleting it. He deleted how John took his tea. He deleted the names of John's girlfriends. He deleted the way John smelled in the morning and what brands of shampoo and cologne he used. He deleted—

"Sherlock," said Mycroft. Sherlock opened his eyes and dropped John's hand.

"Why are you here?"

"You were supposed to be at your flat."

"It isn't time to meet yet."

"Yes, well—"

"Stop following me. It's annoying."

A smile played at the corner of Mycroft's mouth. "What are you doing, Sherlock."

Sherlock glared at his brother. Mycroft's eyes suddenly widened. "You're deleting him? Sherlock!"

Sherlock continued to glare. "Not all of him. But he's clutter now. I can't have irrelevant things cluttering up my mind."

"Quite. You can do it later, Sherlock. If you still feel you must. Come along."

Sherlock glared even harder as his elder brother turned and stepped out of the room. He looked longingly at John, biting his lip. He seriously considered showing how he felt about the man, getting it out once and for all, but decided strongly against it. Not with Mycroft hovering in the hall. "Goodbye John." Then he whispered, "I will do good for you." And with that, Sherlock stood up and swept out of the room.

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><p><em>Once again, please take the time to review. Honestly, it's only about 30 seconds of your life and it'll make my day! I hope you liked my efforts! I am juggling two other stories at the moment, so it may be several weeks till the next chapter, but I will try to get it up as soon as I can.<em>

_-MP_


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